


In the Space Between

by Somekindofcontraption



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Tent Sex, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somekindofcontraption/pseuds/Somekindofcontraption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She could fill books with all of the times she’d made a fool of herself in front of him. It was always the same; Anders would say something, Hawke would offer up a poorly thought out flirtatious comment in response, he’d laugh nervously… it was insane, really, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Truth be told, her love life had taken a turn for the nonexistent since those first days when they became fast friends; it would be unfair, bedding someone when all she could think of was messy golden hair and healer’s hands."</p><p>Hawke and Anders come together in the most unlikely ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Space Between

The craggy face of Sundermount had to be one of the most miserable places in all of Thedas; the wind coursed down the mountainside in gusty bursts, trees rustled wildly in the wind, and the air always hung thin. The howling set Hawke on edge, but while Solitivus’ errands were guaranteed to be exceedingly tedious, the payout was always worth it, and so Hawke and her companions once again found themselves on that long trek to brave bandits and Tal-Vashoth alike in search of rare ingredients.

_A master herbalist and all he can tell me is the flower is blue? Honestly._

They’d settled down to camp when the sun began to hang low over the mountain. She enjoyed any downtime they can manage; Varric’s story telling, games of Wicked Grace... But now in the darkness of their shared tent, even after all of their exertions, Hawke found herself frustratingly awake. The sort of awake where you realize that the sun has come up and you haven’t slept yet. The sort of awake that she could have made quick work of if she were alone in her own bed instead of freezing out on Sundermount.

_But you’re not alone, Marian Hawke, so don’t you even think about it._

Close quarters in a tent with three of her closest friends was hardly an appropriate place to touch herself, but two hours of staring at worn canvas had her just about mad with boredom. At this rate, she’d be useless tomorrow morning. With a sigh she shifted her hips to allow room for a hand to slip into her smallclothes.

_Since when have you ever listened to reason, anyway?_

Closing her eyes she tried to ignore Fenris’ snuffling on the far side of the tent, Varric’s soft snore, the slow inhale-exhale of Anders just inches away…

She could try to pretend the thought didn’t excite her, but it would have been pointless; her stomach fluttered as her mind wandered to her passionate and frustrating apostate healer. She could fill books with all of the times she’d made a fool of herself in front of him. It was always the same; Anders would say something, Hawke would offer up a poorly thought out flirtatious comment in response, he’d laugh nervously… it was insane, really, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Truth be told, her love life had taken a turn for the nonexistent since those first days when they became fast friends; it would be unfair, bedding someone when all she could think of was messy golden hair and healer’s hands.

_Maker help you, you love him. You’ve really done it this time, Marian._

Hawke bit her lip. Lying side by side with him now she could feel each breath, each shift of an arm or hip. Even at rest, he often seemed restless. Focusing in on the sound of his breath she teased herself with practiced fingers, her eyes fluttering closed so all that remained was the slide of her fingertips, tracing over her clit and down to press at her opening. Perfectly still, save for her hand. Growing up on the run there had been very little privacy; she knew how not to get caught.

_That was necessity. He’s half a foot from you, Hawke. This is wrong and you know it._

The tent felt so much closer here in the dark, everything sharp and every sense keening with slow-building urgency, lost in the intense rhythm back and forth and the occasional teasing press inside. She brought herself just to the edge, rocking into her palm and then letting up, letting the feeling wane. She was close, so close, just a few more strokes…

A hand caught her wrist, and in that moment time came to a stuttering halt.

Sinking fear settled into her chest and she didn’t move, hardly breathed, as if moving meant acknowledging the warm fingers wrapped around the fluttering pulse point in her wrist, holding her still where her hand pressed into her smalls.

_So much for never getting caught._

There was no time, however, to laugh mirthlessly at her own misfortune and shame. Her wrist was released and that hand, oh maker, had snaked under her own and picked up where she had left off.

The pace he set was quick and unyielding; she pressed back against him in earnest, biting her lip to bruising as he moved in, pressed against the length of her, the heat of him overwhelming in the humid air. The tent was so quiet, everything falling away as Anders, her Anders, pushed until his cock was held tight against the curve of her ass and his greedy mouth sucked marks in the hollow where her shoulder met her neck. Every question, every objection she may have had— _and there certainly weren’t many of them_ — dissolved into his name, a mantra repeated over and over in her head as she grabbed blindly behind her, grasping for bare skin.

_Anders, Anders, Anders…_

When she came he nipped at her bare shoulder as if reminding her to remain silent. Hawke muffled her breathy gasps by shoving her fingers in her mouth, her hand moving to guide his, pushing his fingers inside of her; thrusting, sloppy, perfect. In her post-orgasm haze she wondered how he managed to pull her pants and smalls down to her mid thighs as well as untie his own with such great ease. He murmured something before sliding a now-slick palm between her legs to coat her thighs and then himself.

_Remind me why this is a bad idea? I don’t think it’s such a bad idea._

Anders pulled her flush to him once more, and Hawke choked back a desperate cry as his cock slipped between her clenched thighs, each slow slide just barely teasing at her clit. He rained kisses across the hard planes of her shoulder blades, tongue tracing beads of salty sweat and there was nothing more perfect than the two of them together and the slick heat of Anders thrusting warm between her legs.

His thrusts became erratic, soft wet noises barely audible over the wind and rustle of the tent. He moved his slick hand to grasp at her hip, his nails sharp against her skin and teeth sinking into her shoulder as his orgasm took him.

Hawke wasn’t sure how long she lay there with Anders wrapped around her, chest heaving, trying to muffle her breath with an arm sprawled over her face. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wished desperately to see his face, but sleep soon overwhelmed the impulse. As she began to doze he carefully pulled her smallclothes and pants up over her hips, tucking himself back into his pants and retying them. He moved away from her then—   _where are you going?_ — and they fell asleep side by side, just as they had been before.

Anders said nothing to her the next morning. He chatted with Varric while Fenris stoked the fire, sparing her only the usual friendly smile before returning to his conversation. As Hawke washed away the night in a nearby river, she wondered if it had all been a dream, if her desperation had finally gone to her head... but she noticed as she bathed a line of lurid bruises pressed into her hips.

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks went by and Hawke had just about resigned herself to a lifetime of futile pining. Anders had treated her no differently since “The Incident” had occurred, and a niggling little voice in the back of her head whispering don’t you see he regrets it? stopped her from confronting him.

She valued his friendship too much to risk driving him away.

So, Hawke took Anders on her adventures around Kirkwall just as she always did. Today the two of them went alone to the Kirkwall chantry; she wanted to talk to Elthina about the plight of Kirkwall’s mages for what seemed like the hundredth time. What possessed her to think that _Anders_ would be the best candidate for “moral support” in this situation, she’d never know— as per usual, “good ideas” and “Hawke” did not go hand in hand.

Everything was going about as well as could be expected when Hawke happened to glance over at Anders looking for the encouragement she so desperately needed. She found him staring back at her with a look in his eyes that sucked the air out of the room and left her dizzy. It had to be some sort of sin, looking at someone like that when you were standing in a chantry...

_Talking to a Grand Cleric, no less._

She though clean, pure thoughts that most certainly did not involve him taking her in a nearby alley. She definitely wasn’t thinking of two bodies writhing together in a tent, no serah, not at all. Her entire focus was on the Grand Cleric, who was… bidding her good day? Probably. She’s stopped talking, in any case, and so Hawke excused herself and made her way towards the door, heart thundering somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

_Maker’s breath, but that look._

She walked ahead of Anders (no small task as his legs were a good deal longer than her own), chasing out the awkward, tense silence by complaining about Elthina’s frustratingly passive stance. She had just about shaken the feeling that her legs might collapse out from under her when Anders cut her off mid-sentence, grabbing her by the wrist and tugging her into the tight space between a wall and an overly ostentatious statue of Andraste. The word _sacrilege_ crosses her mind briefly before Anders began to kiss his way down her body, working her robes up around her hips and pushing her back to sit on the waist-high base of the ornate statue.

_Oh, fuck._

Pushing her to sit further back on the statue base he kneeled, pulling her legs over his shoulders, gripping her thighs to keep her spread open. Hawke’s feet brushed the wall behind his head as she arched into him, seeking contact, threading desperate fingers into his hair.

_We shouldn’t be doing this, what are we doing?_

Anders’ eyes were wild under all that disheveled blonde hair. He mouthed at her through her smallclothes, lapping at the soft cloth it until it was wet, sticky, clinging. Her orgasm built up inside her; as the intensity fills her, a frisson of excitement sparked through her ragged nerves.

He pulled the damp cloth aside to thrust his tongue inside her, dipping in, pulling out, dipping in again. Her breaths were harsh, loud in the cramped space. His right hand left her thigh, disappearing into his robes and, oh maker, he was touching himself. She couldn’t see past the tangled mess of his hair, but she could imagine it; Anders teasing himself, foreskin pulled back to reveal the throbbing, reddened tip of his cock. Hawke realized then that she hadn’t seen him yet, had only felt him against her, and yearning cut her deep with the desire to push him back, to crawl into his lap, to ride him until he came inside her. If only she could hold his face in her hands, to see him fall apart for her, to hear him say her name...

Anders’ tongue continued to press greedily at her clit as she shuddered, overwhelmed, focused on every point of contact between them as he slumped to let his sweat-drenched forehead rest on her thigh. His hand worked his cock frantically and he came, gasping, on the chantry floor. It was the most beautiful and holy shit terrible thing she had seen in her life.

Hawke didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break the fragile thing between them. After several moments of labored breathing and silence between them, Anders made the first move; he covered himself first, then gently smoothed her robes back down over her legs. Without a word or look he got to his feet, slipped past the base of the statue and left her in that small space, panting and alone, the smell of them a lingering reminder.

_Oh, Anders._

 

* * *

 

 

When Leandra died she drowned her sorrows in the best ale the Hanged Man has to offer, which smells like old dishwater but did what Hawke needed it to. Varric had already retired to his room with an unspoken offer of a place to stay if she didn’t want to go home.

_Two months since the Chantry… had it really been so long?_

How could she reconcile with the things that had happened to her? All that was left of her Leandra to bury was a horror with her mother’s face, her sister and brother an all too distant memory. But somehow just two months ago Anders had come to her, giving her hope that maybe something would come of this… whatever it was that they were doing. There was a misery in the space between that she found unbearable; a crushing loneliness she didn’t know how to cope with.

_You’re all alone, Hawke. There’s no one to go home to, now._

As if to drag her bodily from her misery, a familiar hand clutched at her wrist and tugged her into a private back room. Some part of her inebriated brain recognized Anders by the way his fingers felt on her skin; she’d never forget the smell of him, all petrichor and earth. Her bleary thoughts struggled to describe it.

_Home._

Without even shutting the door behind him Anders backed her into a disused table, her thighs knocking hard against the rough wood. Something had changed. His mouth was hungry on hers, tongue pressed against her own, and she realized that this is the first time they’ve ever kissed. Breathless, groaning, desperate; his moans disrupted the despair that had taken root inside of her. Hawke chased it out with fury, her anger bubbling up. She bucked against him violently, nails scratching at any part of him she could grasp at.

_Fight or fuck, Hawke._

Anders worked his thigh between her legs, pinning her to the table and making short work of the front of her robes. His teeth nipped a trail from the pulse point in her neck, between her breasts, to her hips; she could barely breathe, barely think and she _needed_ this; the uncertain discourse, the incredible pain and confusion and want. She wanted to let him tear her apart, use her, _devour_ her, for nothing to exist outside the two of them.

His mouth left off at the sharp edge of her hipbone; with none too gentle hands he spun her around, slamming her into the creaking, rickety table, the wood digging sharply into the front of her thighs. With little effort he freed her from her open robes and let them fall to their feet, leaving her body bare to the tavern air. Pulling away for just a moment he freed his cock from his own robes, and it was with one harsh and unforgiving thrust he was inside of her, his mouth biting angry red marks into every part of her that he could reach, chasing a constellation of scars on her back with his tongue. Hawke was dizzy, choking, grief burning in her throat like bile.

“Breathe. Breathe, Hawke.”

She started as she realized it was his voice, not her own thoughts, telling her… what? A sob wrenched its way out of her and she slumped, forehead resting on the rough surface of the table. Anders was still, so still; she could feel his heartbeat, the steady panting breaths against the hard line of her back.

“Shhh, be still Hawke. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Anders pulled back his hips slowly, murmuring soothing words of encouragement I’m here I’m here against the base of her neck as he thrust into her, filling her up, pacing out a rhythm of slow languid thrusts; she was drowning in it, the way his steady hands traced up and down her sides, his breathy gasps. Their moans filled the room and it was different, new. Anders held her close, all steady control, so alive and vibrant and real. Her orgasm washed over her, tremors wracking her body and still he held her close, continuing that same unwavering cadence. Hawke had never felt so vulnerable; with Anders, she felt safe. He put her back together, giving her tenderness she didn’t even know she needed.

“ _Anders…_ ” Hawke whimpered, overwrought with sensation, legs trembling to maintain their position. He gasped her name as he came with one last frantic thrust, spilling inside of her, his body trembling with the force of it.

“I’m here.”

Anders’ voice was hoarse. His softened cock slipped out of her and wetness dripped down her thighs; he soothed her with a gentle kiss to the spot where her neck met her spine. Standing up he coaxed her into facing him, and with a gentle sigh he brushed his fingers against the curve of her cheek. There was a raw intimacy in the gesture that she couldn’t begin to describe. Hawke clutched at his coat, fingers clinging to the worn material; the contact grounded her, grounded them both. Anders buried his face in her hair.

 

“I’m here, Hawke.”


End file.
